Derailment
by GiuliettaC
Summary: Foyle's Christmas morning takes an unexpected turn. 1940.


**Derailment**

**Summary:**

Foyle's Christmas morning takes an unexpected turn. 1940.

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**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

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**Author's Note:**

_Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, Born this happy morning;  
Jesu, to Thee be glory giv'n.  
Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing,_

_O come, let us adore Him,  
O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,  
Christ the Lord._

This is the final verse of _O Come All Ye Faithful - _a verse traditionally sung only at Christmas morning mass.

...

For my ladies all around the world in different time zones.

* * *

**Derailment**

Christmas morning and the pavement in Steep Lane was dangerously slippery from the packed snow underfoot. _Taking your life in your hands to even try and walk downhill on such a morning,_ thought Foyle. As it was, the walk across the road to St Clement's was going to be a bit of a palaver. And of course the stretch of road in front of his particular door was likely to be the most treacherous, standing as it did where the street widened and was open to the elements. He hoped to God the Misses Jellicoe at Lavender House would elect to stay indoors, rather than risk a broken hip. Not that he wouldn't squire them over to the church if asked—they had a telephone—but he still doubted he could keep the two of them upright at once.

In any case he wasn't much in the mood to lend his voice to a rousing chorus of _'O Come, All Ye Faithful'_. A glass of malt, and a good book to the soothing strains of Schubert's _Trout Quintet _was more in his line. Andrew couldn't manage to be with him this year, and Hugh Reid was laid up with the 'flu. Hugh's wife would have her work cut out, with Hugh being such a bloody awful patient. Foyle considered whether he might make an effort later in the day to call in on Elaine and see what he might do to help. But now, and for the time being, he preferred his own safe, uninfectious company, and the cosy comfort of his living room. The Lord would never miss one solitary bottom on a pew in any case.

Foyle checked the clock above the mantelpiece. Ten o'clock. A little early for a snifter, but who the devil was looking? He raised the whisky bottle to the light, and grunted. Hardly what you'd call the makings of a drunken spree. If there were five snorts in the bottle that was all there were. And so he poured himself a finger's breadth and sank into his armchair.

_"'Yea, Lord, we greet Thee!'"_ he saluted with his glass, closed his eyes, and took a warming, worshipful sip of peace.

It was short-lived. A (somewhat tentative, he thought) ratta-tat-tat at the front door had him sitting forward in his chair and wondering who in blazes...?

Foyle rose, and ran a finger up under his tie. _Well, man, you're decent_. Dressed, in fact, for earlier intentions of attending church—no jacket, but in buttoned waistcoat he would pass for civilised on his own doorstep.

Moving towards the door, he tried to guess who might be on the steps outside, and reasoned it would be a neighbour. Quite the last person he expected to see there was Samantha Stewart.

But there she stood, clutching a suitcase, her face pinched with cold, teeth chattering; and both her knees were bloody.

"Sam?... what on earth?" He blinked, then took possession of himself, and of her case, stretching out his hand to guide her indoors.

"What _happened_ to you?" he asked incredulously.

"Came a cropper coming down the hill, Sir." She was shaking. Shivering from head to toe, and so her words came out in fitful bursts, punctuated with little shudders. "Awfully... long story... May I... use your phone? My mother... will be frantic."

Foyle frowned, unhooked his overcoat from the coatstand and draped it round her shoulders. "First things first. You come inside and warm up properly. A few more minutes can't possibly matter."

He led her into the living room and sat her in an armchair next to the fire, before bending to poke the coals and encourage as much heat as possible from the anthracite.

"Better?" he turned to her, and squinted his concern. "Let me pull these off." He tugged the leather gloves from her fingers, and was shocked to find them wet through. His enquiring glance drew an immediate explanation from Sam.

"Happened when I fell and grazed my knees," she told him simply. "Fortunately, I had my gloves on or my hands would have been skinned as well." She tried, and failed, to flex her frozen fingers.

Foyle took her hands between his and let the warmth from his own fingers seep into hers. "They'll thaw very shortly," he told her gently, and watched in mute concern as she began to wince, then whimper little 'ow's' at the returning sensation.

He pressed his hands more solidly around hers to alleviate the pain. After a while, her face relaxed, and he could tell that circulation was restored.

"I was meant to be in Lyminster last night," Sam resumed her tale, "but the track fractured and the engine was derailed. Didn't even get as far as Eastbourne. We were all stuck on the train for hours while they decided what to do. And finally," she rolled her eyes, "_finally _they got a bus out to us and brought us back to Hastings very early this morning."

Foyle was stooping now to inspect her knees, and thinking that some alcohol and arnica would be in order; although it was debatable whether the alcohol would do more good inside or out. After a short internal wrangle with himself, he fetched the glass of whisky he'd begun to drink and carefully bent her fingers round it—both hands, to be safe. "Get this down you while I ring your mother. Number?"

"Lyminster 235."

"Right. Stay there. Get warm." He left the room with Sam quaking silently in the chair. She heard his voice drift in from the hall, and screwed her eyes shut, gasping as the whisky sent a trail of molten lava down her throat .

Moments later, he was back with bandages and lint, and soapy water in a bowl, and placed them near her feet next to the hearth. Her shivering had stopped, he noticed, and her fingers gripped the glass more surely than when he had left her.

He smiled down at her reassuringly. "I told your mother you were safe, and not to worry, but that she should not expect you home for Christmas, since the track's still out of action and the trains won't run again for two days anyway."

"Thank you, Sir." Sam waited for the question surely forming in his mind, but he fixed her with a patient smile and didn't ask. So she ploughed into the explanation anyway. "I expect you're wondering why I came to you instead of going to my lodgings."

"Mmwell... It crossed my mind that you, er, might like to tell me, in your own good time?"

Sam nodded once. "I _did_ go home—my landlady has gone to London to her daughter's—but when I got there, I discovered that I'd lost my key. I suppose I could've smashed a window, but the panes are tiny. I'd've had to break the window frame as well. So then I thought... you might not mind if...?"

Foyle's brows puckered, signalling his understanding. "Nnnot a problem. Andrew's room is empty. 'S'not as if you haven't put it to good use before." The twinkle in his eyes caused her to shift and giggle with relief.

"Thank you, Sir. I knew you'd be a brick about it. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Nuh well," he shrugged, "It's good to have your company. Although, I'd wager that you'd sooner go upstairs and get some sleep after the night you've had. We'll sort this out," he gestured toward her knees, then you can get some shuteye, and, um, I'll feed you later."

Sam swallowed hopefully. "Actually, Sir... it isn't only sleep I'm short of. I was wondering whether..."

Foyle's eyes rose to the ceiling. "...whether I could feed you now?"

Sam grinned. "You know me, Sir. I'm absolutely starving. Would you mind?"

"Nup. Don't suppose I would," he grinned. "You sort yourself out here," he pointed to the bandages and bowl, "and I'll be in the kitchen. If you want me, shout. But I'd imagine you'd sooner see to this yourself?"

She smiled at him shyly. "Rather, Sir."

...

An hour later, Sam was pleasantly replete with food, knees cleaned and bandaged, and reclining against the arm of Foyle's settee, stifling a yawn. Foyle peeped around the doorway to satisfy himself that she was comfortable, then rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and returned to the kitchen to finish washing up the dishes.

Rooting through the pantry afterwards, he found the remains of a tin of Cadbury's Bournville cocoa, and made an extra-sweet cup of chocolate, which he then carried in to Sam. Her eyes were barely open by this time, and he hesitated to disturb her, but the slight clink of the cup against the saucer when he placed them on the table made her start and sit up straight.

"Sorry, Sir" she yawned, "must've drifted off for an instant. The whisky, p'raps."

"Here," he nodded to the cup and smiled. "Call it a bedtime drink. Then you can take yourself upstairs and get some proper rest."

"Good Lord," Sam yawned more widely, bringing up a hand to cover her embarrassment, "I feel as if I could sleep for Britain."

Foyle lowered himself beside her on the settee and sent her a lopsided smile. "Well, y'know, everybody's got to do their bit for King and Country... in their own way."

Sam grinned contentedly, then reached for the cup, and drank her cocoa. Her skin was glowing in the firelight. "Wonderfully sweet. Just lovely, Sir."

His lips twitched and he stared into the fire. "My thoughts precisely. Care to hear a little Schubert, Sam?"

"Mmm. Yes I would. My father always says the Germans should've stuck to writing music."

Foyle rose and turned on the gramophone. He picked the Schubert from his pile of records and loaded it onto the turntable, lowering the sharpish needle into the groove.

"Schubert was an Austrian," he corrected,

"Oh," Sam sighed, mildly deflated. "Oh well."

After a moment, an idea struck her and she frowned. "But isn't Hitler Austrian as well, Sir?"

Foyle stood, head tilted by the gramophone until the strings began to play, then turned the volume down a shade. "Yup. Think that mmight be the _only_ thing he and Schubert have in common though."

Sam took another sip of her drink. "I expect you're right. Dictators are sort of single-minded about dictating, aren't they? No time to be, well, creative."

"Hitler aspired to be a painter, in his youth," supplied Foyle, eyes stretched, tongue planted in his cheek to tease her with his gentle challenge.

Sam looked up sharply. "No! You're joking, Sir!"

"Nup."

"Was he any good?"

"Mmmatter of opinion. He failed to get into the fine arts academy in Vienna. Twice."

"I suppose that got his goat a bit, Sir."

"Fair bet, wouldn't you say?" Foyle grinned.

"Still, Sir, if he _had _got in... perhaps we wouldn't be at war now. Funny how things turn out, isn't it? His ambitions being derailed like that. Do you think it turned his mind?"

"Might've." Foyle sank down next to Sam again and crossed his ankles. "But most people will stand a few knocks without turning into neurotic psychopaths." He scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Some might see an, um, _derailment_ as an _opportunity_, for instance. Y'know... a chance to see things in a different light. Make another sort of future for themselves."

Sam giggled lightly. "Well, I have absolutely _no_ idea what a... an, erm, psychotic neuropath is, Sir, but if painting was the thing that made _me _happy, and I couldn't earn a living at it, I suppose I'd simply paint in my spare time. I wouldn't try to use that setback as some weak excuse for being beastly." She yawned and settled back into her cushion. "Honestly, I think that cocoa's done for me. Can hardly keep my peepers open."

Foyle gazed at her indulgently, then checked the time. A little bit before midday. He craned his neck and peered out of the window toward the church. Some people lingered in the churchyard after morning mass, and one or two were chatting to the vicar in the snow.

_'Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, born this happy morning'_, thought Foyle_._ And indeed this _was _a happy morning. Now.

As he watched, Sam's breathing deepened to an even rhythm, and her head of blonde curls lolled toward his shoulder.

Schubert's _Trout _ tripped gaily in the background, and he closed his eyes and thought of peaceful afternoons beside the river, where the waters giggled like a lovely girl and carried any manner of delightful possibilities hidden in their depths.

"Merry Christmas, Sam," he whispered. "I'll be here when you wake up."

***** FIN *****

**... but I invite you to read the New Year's Eve sequel: _Fire and Ice._**

**GiuC**


End file.
